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An orange glow tints Miles’s face, giving him a more relaxed and open vibe as Phoenix stares at him from across the table. Miles is one of the only people that Phoenix knows that really thrives in fancy settings such as the restaurantthey’re currently sitting in. Places that would make anyone else nervous seem to be the prosecutor’s forte. It’s odd but adorable, in a way. Well, maybe if you’re Phoenix. Most other people just find the man pretentious or stuck up.
Phoenix has a lopsided smile on his face as he stares at his husband. He looks like some lovestruck college kid, even after all of this time. The boyishness of his facial features never fully faded.
“Are you alright?”
Miles’s voice is low, his grey eyes suddenly staring back into the heterochromatic ones observing him. He’s intense by nature, even if he doesn’t mean to be. It isn’t obvious, but he starts to sit up as if ready to act in a moment’s notice.
Phoenix’s eyes widen at the sudden question, or maybe at being caught staring. He holds his palms up as his cheeks redden just slightly.
“What? Oh. Yeah, Miles, I'm fine.”
“Are you sure? There wasn’t rosemary in your pasta, was there?”
“No. I’m not gonna break out in hives, so take it easy,” Phoenix says, a fond feeling in his chest at the domesticity of the moment—at Miles’s care. At one point in time, that felt so far away, almost like a fantasy instead of something that could have really happened. Sometimes Phoenix will randomly remember how far they’ve come in that regard, and it feels like he falls in love all over again.
A hopeless sap, as Maya would, and has, called him.
Miles’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension. He nods once, eyeing Phoenix for just a moment longer before looking back down at his plate. They’re in the middle of their meals, not rushing for once. A slow date night is a requirement for them to stay sane. They always make sure to set aside time strictly for them.
Date nights aren’t always extremely fancy. Sometimes a simple cinema or coffee shop date is more than enough for them. They had just been in the mood to get dressed up and go out tonight. Both men are in their best suits, their hair lacking any frizz or waves. The restaurant is one that, back in the day, Phoenix would have only been able to imagine. Without Miles, he likely wouldn't have even been let in.
Miles is savoring his steak as he listens to Phoenix talk about some adventure he was drug into back in the day, back before he got his badge. There's a small, amused grin on Miles's face as he listens.
They're interrupted when Phoenix's phone starts vibrating insistantly in his pocket. He quickly fumbles and fishes it out, shooting an apologetic look to those glancing his way.
He intends on sending the call to voicemail as soon as he gets it out, but he stops once he sees the screen. It's their home phone number, meaning it’s either Trucy or Franziska, who is at the house babysitting. Neither of them would call unless it was important.
Phoenix shares a quick glance with Miles as he answers the call and holds the phone up to his ear. He would usually never answer a call in a place like this, but worry for his daughter trumps anything else, anytime.
“Hello?” he says quietly into the line, putting his cloth napkin onto the table next to his plate.
“Daddy? Hi, um, I'm sorry to call on a date night.”
“It's okay, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
There's a moment of silence on the line. Phoenix can't see it, but the girl is holding the receiver with one hand, the other fidgeting with the wire. She hesitates as if unsure what to say.
“Aunt Franzi isn't feeling well or something…”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his brows furrowing. In his years of being a father, he's mastered the art of keeping his voice steady and calm for his daughter. It doesn't fail him now.
Miles has quietly set his utensils down, sensing that something might be wrong. He can only hear his husband's side of the conversation, but, as a seasoned lawyer, his ability to read in between the lines is impeccable.
When the silence on the line stretches too long for comfort, Phoenix speaks again.
“Trucy?” he prompts.
“She told me she’s fine, but I'm kinda worried.”
“Okay, take a second. It's okay. Talk to me and tell me what's going on.”
Trucy takes a deep, steadying breath, faintly audible over the line. Just like they taught her when she was younger.
“She's really pale,” the girl says quietly. “She almost passed out while we were setting up the TV to play a game.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah. She kind of caught herself. A-And I wasn’t going to say anything, but she hasn't come out of the bathroom in a long time.”
“What? How long?”
“Umm… Maybe fifteen minutes?”
Phoenix takes a steadying breath of his own. At some point over the call, Miles's hand has moved to rest on top of Phoenix's where it sits on the table. The prosecutor is quiet, not interrupting, but grounding in his own way. The kind of silent and steadfast support that blends with Phoenix so well.
“Okay,” Phoenix breathes. “We'll come home and check on things. You did the right thing calling us, okay?”
“Okay…”
“We'll be home in a bit. Ten minutes, tops.”
With that, they mumble their goodbyes and the line disconnects.
Miles, when hearing Phoenix say that they'd be home soon, flagged down the waiter before the call ended. As Phoenix is pocketing his phone, the waiter brings over a slim leather book with their bill in it. The guy is expecting to leave it with the couple for a minute, as usual, and starts to turn away. The restaurant is a bit busy tonight.
Miles is already standing, putting cash into the book without looking at the total of the bill. It's a quick, fluid motion, not aggressive or rushed. He hands it back to the waiter with a small nod and a quiet order to keep any change.
Phoenix has gathered their belongings and falls in step just behind Miles. He gives the waiter a kind smile in passing, a small attempt to ease some of the intensity of his husband. He's used to having to do that.
The wind whips at their hair once they’re outside. They’re in the heart of the metropolis, cars speeding past all around them and colorful lights blurring together. It’s a beautiful part of the city, one that the men have become accustomed to.
Concern and worry swirl together inside each of them. Not panic, but perhaps a small strike of adrenaline. Trucy hadn’t been able to give them much information over the phone. All they know is that Franziska, always so put together, has locked herself in the bathroom, whether intentionally or not. That’s very unusual for the woman as it is, but especially to do it while babysitting. Franziska has always taken her time with Trucy very seriously, in her own way.
Miles gets in the driver’s seat with a sigh, starting the car as Phoenix is still climbing in. They’re not rushing, knowing they’re not too far from home. Their quiet intensity isn’t a rare sight.
Once the doors are shut, Miles fluidly pulls out of the parking lot. He turns the heat on with one hand, his other keeping the steering wheel steady from the top. He feels Phoenix glance over at him. Franziska is a part of their little family, but she was Miles’s sister first. Miles doesn’t speak openly about it, but Phoenix knows that his husband worries about the woman sometimes.
Miles leans back once they’re on the highway. He shakes his head to himself in a way that has become so familiar to Phoenix.
“What are you thinking about?”
Phoenix’s question is quiet. His hands are idly messing with the Steel Samurai keychain that lives on Miles’s bag, which is currently resting against blue trousers. He twirls it around his fingers as he speaks.
Miles gives a heavy sigh, shaking his head and staring out at the dark road ahead of them. His brows are pulled together, almost resembling irritation rather than concern.
“She used to do this. When I was in university and she was about fourteen.”
When no further explanation comes, Phoenix quirks one eyebrow up. The master of pressing people’s statements.
“And?”
“She would refuse to eat. Or, when Manfred was watching and she was forced to, she’d make herself sick after. She had an en-suite bathroom of her own, so no one noticed for a long time.”
“Bulimia?”
“I suppose. She was never seen by a doctor for it, though. I’m not sure that Manfred ever even acknowledged it.”
“Wow. So... She stopped on her own?”
“I thought so,” Miles sighs. “She started looking healthier. I never saw any issues when she spent the holidays with us last year. Maybe she’s...”
“Yeah,” Phoenix ends quietly, knowing what his husband is thinking but not forcing him to say it. The word ‘relapse’ always feels cold on Miles’s tongue, in any context. “Well, why is she doing it now? With Manfred gone, she’s not forced to eat. She’s an adult.”
Miles contemplates silently for a few moments before he speaks again.
“I found her unconscious in her bathroom once. Sometimes she wouldn’t make herself sick, but she went so long between meals that she felt the need to hide, especially when on the verge of fainting. Her bathroom was the only place Manfred never went into. She found peace in there sometimes.”
Phoenix nods quietly, absorbing the information. Trucy had mentioned that Franziska had almost fainted earlier and is noticeably pale.
Growing up in an unstable household leaves lasting effects on any kid. It produces adults with different habits or quirks. Miles and Franziska are clear examples of that. Phoenix is used to his husband’s quirks, but he’s only now stopping to consider that the woman has them, too, in different ways.
Everyone notices Franziska’s perfectionism and fierce independence, but there are other lingering effects, too. Private ones. It’s almost strange to picture her, a living firecracker, hiding somewhere.
It’s not too long after that Miles seamlessly parks the car in their garage. The automatic door closes behind them as they pay it no mind and head into the house.
Coming in through the garage, they step into the kitchen. Nothing seems out of place. There’s a small addition of a tray of brownies sitting on the stove, decorated with colorful sprinkles.
Phoenix hangs their coats on the rack by the door, looking up when Trucy pads into the room. She’s wringing her hands like she always does when worried about something. The nervous expression on her face doesn’t fade when Miles crouches down in front of her.
“I sat by the bathroom door for forever. She kept telling me to go play.”
Miles’s shoulders relax slightly at that. Franziska is at least speaking, not unconscious or hurt. He nods calmly, rubbing his daughter’s shoulders by instinct.
“I’ll go talk to her,” he says, voice steady. “Let Daddy help you cut the brownies. And you better save me a middle piece.”
Those words earn a small, half-hearted smile from the girl. She closes her eyes for just a second when he plants a kiss to her temple before standing. With a few glances back at him, she moves to where Phoenix is standing by the counter. The two busy themselves while Miles heads off down the hall.
Coming to a stop in front of the bathroom door, Miles knows that he could just pop it open. The lock is faulty and will unlatch if maneuvered right. He doesn’t. He leans against the wall beside the door, crossing his arms over his middle.
“Franziska?” he prompts. It isn’t easy for him, but he deliberately makes his voice nonthreatening and keeps all the intensity out of it that he can manage. He’s not the channeler in the family, but sometimes, in moments like these, he feels himself trying to be like his husband.
A long silence stretches. Franziska, on the other side of the door, is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, squeezing her eyes shut as if willing herself to disappear. Her fingers curl tightly into the bottom hem of her blue sweater.
She can't sit in here forever, as much as she wishes she could. To never come out and never have to face them would be fine by her. She always regrets when she does something attention-drawing like this. It's always on impulse, before she can will herself to just be ‘normal.’
“Franziska.”
“…What?”
The quiet and stubborn response almost makes Miles smile. Almost. The woman has always been herself, hands down. She's always been stubborn and defensive. Miles may be more used to it than anyone else.
“Are you alright?” Miles asks quietly, privately.
“I'm fine. Why are you home?”
“We finished dinner and came home,” he lies. “Trucy says you've been in there for a while. Are you sick?”
“No. Stop trying to check up on me.”
“You’re hiding in my bathroom. You're worrying my daughter. You’re worrying me.”
After a few quiet moments, the door comes open. Franziska frowns up at him. Her skin, true to Trucy’s words, is pale in an almost translucent way. A few of her veins are faintly visible, small streaks of blue under her skin. Even with all of that, the thing that really sticks out to her brother is just how tired her eyes are. The usual fire doesn’t burn behind them. Perhaps the ashes of the burnout made the dark smudges under her eyes.
“Since when do you worry about people?” she bites.
Miles sighs and halfway rolls his eyes.
“We both know the answer to that.”
“Tsk. Damned Phoenix Wright.”
Miles chuckles softly at that, just once. That would be the easy answer. It’s the answer he lets them settle with, though they both know it’s not the entire truth. Phoenix was just the catalyst that helped Miles stop suppressing the feelings that were always there.
The truth is, Miles has worried about Franziska ever since he was ten years old and met her for the first time. Once living with the Von Karmas became normal for him, and he started to endure the mistreatment, he started worrying about the random girl that was suddenly his sister. She had been mistreated since birth. She never knew kindness or true familial love. Once Miles realized that, he always kept an eye out for her, even if he never acted on it. He never protected her like he should have, but he always worried about her on nights that Manfred got after her. Or when he found her collapsed in the bathroom during a visit home from university.
The easy option is to give Phoenix the credit right now, though. Miles shifts the conversation slightly.
“You’re not feeling well, clearly. We have a guest room, you know you're free to stay,” he offers quietly. Then, carefully: “You're welcome to order dinner with Trucy. She gets takeout on our date nights. Our treat.”
“I’d better not,” Franziska says automatically. She’s keeping her composure, having had years of practice, but she can’t keep it up forever. She’ll try, though.
Miles sighs heavily, shaking his head. Married to someone like Phoenix, he knows when to suggest and when to be direct. It’s a balance that he’s mastered with his hardheaded husband and sister.
“Did you eat anything while we were gone?” he frowns.
“You were only gone for a few hours. I was going to have dinner when I got home.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, Miles. Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”
“I don’t think I am. When my eight-year-old daughter calls to tell me that her babysitter almost fainted and locked herself away, it paints a pretty clear picture. You can do this on your own time. Do not do it in front of Trucy.”
Miles’s words are sharp, bordering on harsh. The thought of his daughter learning such a dangerous habit from his sister, or anyone, really, makes him want to be sick. A pit of dread threatens to form in his stomach even at the hypothetical of it. He’s worried about Franziska’s habits forever, but now there’s an added layer to it. He wants to shield Trucy from these things for as long as possible, even if it gets harder with every year that she keeps growing. He failed Franziska in that regard and refuses to let it happen again.
He forces himself to take a breath. His old ways still sometimes creep up on him, especially when he’s irritated or, worse, actually concerned. He’s not the best at expressing worry. Manfred didn’t raise them that way.
So, he takes a breath and shakes his head once, forcing his expression to ease up a bit.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. Neither sibling makes direct eye contact. “You’ve always had a knack for stressing me out.”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
The mumbled sarcastic joke eases the tension just slightly. Miles huffs, not quite a laugh, but the closest it’s going to get.
Franziska has her arms crossed, her arms lost somewhere in her sleeves. She glances up when she sees movement.
Phoenix has quietly poked his head around the wall, checking on them. He heard the sharpness in his husband’s voice a few moments ago and knows he’ll have to intervene if there’s some sort of fight.
Miles sees Franziska’s gaze go past him, so he glances back and sees Phoenix. The latter gives an awkward smile.
“Hey,” Phoenix rubs the back of his neck. “We’re about to order from Dairy Queen, if either of you want anything. They have new Blizzard flavors.”
“We’ll come look, just give us a minute,” Miles says easily.
At that, Phoenix nods and offers a lopsided smile to hopefully ease aome of the tension. He heads back to the kitchen. The siblings can faintly hear Trucy ambushing her dad once he’s back with her, showing him the new treats on the digital menu.
Miles turns back to his sister.
“You can order something and take it home, if that makes it easier,” he says quietly. A peace offering. A middle ground.
Franziska hesitates, a frown that borders on a pout on her face. She eventually sighs and gives in. That’s better than sitting at the table and having her every movement watched while she eats. To her, there’s little worse than being looked at while eating. Even after all of these years, she doesn’t have an explanation for that.
“Fine.”
The slight pain in Miles’s shoulders, that had been unnoticed until now, eases as the tension leaves his body. He nods once, giving her the faintest ghost of a smile.
“Good.”
In the kitchen, Trucy is telling Phoenix all about her day. She’s energetic tonight. Phoenix is leaning back against the counter, watching his daughter bounce around with a fond smile. He looks up when Miles and Franziska return.
Miles takes Phoenix’s phone and scrolls through the takeout menu himself. He’s not starving, since they just had dinner, but he knows better than to not want anything right now. He adds a small Blizzard to the order and casually hands the phone to his sister. There’s no pressure or attention drawn to the action.
Franziska ends up just doubling Trucy’s meal. If they’re the exact same, then there will be no fuss trying to figure out what’s what when it arrives. She can simply take one and head out.
The woman is quiet but not overly tense as they settle down in the living room to wait on the delivery. Trucy, with seemingly endless energy, takes up most of the conversation. Franziska is thankful for it, and the men are long used to it.
The night comes to an end once the food arrives, Trucy sitting on the couch and eating in front of the TV.
Franziska quietly mumbles something about needing to get home to Maya. She grabs her bag and pats her niece’s knee as she passes to the door.
Miles doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but he does walk her to the door, stepping onto the porch with her. He purposely doesn’t glance at the bag in her hand.
“Call me if you need anything,” he says quietly, somewhat intensely.
“Sure,” the woman says quietly. Then, after a moment of hesitation, and somehow even quieter: “Thank you.”
Miles heads back inside, the worry not completely gone, but eased just a bit at knowing Franziska will eat at least tonight. They’re not the type to have a heart-to-heart, as neither of them would be able to work up the courage to start it. Their quiet, distant acts of care for each other work for them, even if outsiders would call it strange.